_Ant._ Say a man never marry, nor have children, What takes that from him? only the bare name Of being a father, or the weak delight To see the little wanton ride a-cock-horse Upon a painted stick, or hear him chatter Like a taught starling. _Duch._ Fie, fie, what's all this? One of your eyes is blood-shot; use my ring to't, They say 'tis very sovereign: 'twas my wedding-ring, And I did vow never to part with it But to my second husband. _Ant._ You have parted with it now. _Duch._ Yes, to help your eye-sight. _Ant._ You have made me stark blind. _Duch._ How? _Ant._ There is a saucy and ambitious devil Is dancing in this circle. _Duch._ Remove him. _Ant._ How? _Duch._ There needs small conjuration, when your finger May do it: thus; is it fit? [_She puts the ring upon his finger: he kneels._ _Ant._ What said you? _Duch._ Sir, This goodly roof of yours is too low built; I cannot stand upright in't nor discourse, Without I raise it higher: raise yourself; Or, if you please, my hand to help you: so. [_Raises him._ _Ant._ Ambition, madam, is a great man's madness, That is not kept in chains and close-pent rooms, But in fair lightsome lodgings, and is girt With the wild noise of prattling visitants, Which makes it lunatic beyond all cure. Conceive not I am so stupid but I aim Whereto your favours tend: but he's a fool That, being a-cold, would thrust his hands i' the fire To warm them. _Duch._ So, now the ground's broke, You may discover what a wealthy mine I make you lord of. _Ant._ O my unworthiness! _Duch._ You were ill to sell yourself: This darkening of your worth is not like that Which tradesmen use i' the city; their false lights Are to rid bad wares off: and I must tell you, If you will know where breathes a complete man (I speak it without flattery), turn your eyes, And progress through yourself. _Ant._ Were there nor Heaven nor hell, I should be honest: I have long served virtue, And ne'er ta'en wages of her. _Duch._ Now she pays it. The misery of us that are born great! We are forced to woo, because none dare woo us; And as a tyrant doubles with his words, And fearfully equivocates, so we Are forced to express our violent passions In riddles and in dreams, and leave the path Of simple virtue, which was never made To seem the thing it is not. Go, go brag You have left me heartless; mine is in your bosom: I hope 'twill multiply love there. You do tremble: Make not your heart so dead a piece of flesh, To fear more than to love me. Sir, be confident: What is't distracts you? This is flesh and blood, sir; 'Tis not the figure cut in alabaster Kneels at my husband's tomb. Awake, awake, man! I do here put off all vain ceremony, And only do appear to you a young widow That claims you for her husband, and, like a widow, I use but half a blush in't.